“Did you run?”

“Not at first. I thought I might be overreacting. I mean, not everyone in the world is up to no good.”

“But this guy was.” A muscle in Nate’s cheek clenched, and his eyes hardened.

“Yes. I should have listened to my instincts. The closer I got to him, the more my sense of danger ratcheted up. Finally I decided to bolt. But it was too late. He was on me in three steps. The next thing I knew, I was flat on the ground, he was straddling my back, and the tip of a knife was pressed against my jugular. Before I could scream, he leaned down and said, ‘Make one sound—you’re dead.’”

You’re dead.

As the terrifying threat reverberated in the cozy living room, a wave of nausea rolled through Nate.

Yes, Grace was sitting within touching distance, safe and sound and far removed from that traumatic night, but the outcome could have been very different.

Very fatal.

And she knew that as well as he did, if her death grip on the mug and her renewed pallor were any indication.

This woman who cut up bodies for a living, who’d seen more than her share of blood and gore, was struggling to keep it together. Wrapped in a tattered afghan perhaps from happier childhood days when she’d viewed the world as a safe and welcoming place, she seemed in desperate need of comforting.

While their relationship was too new to assume she’d welcome physical consolation, the temptation to take her in his arms, wrap her in a protective embrace, hold her close, and never let go was hard to resist.

And the tenuous control he had over that impulse dissolved as she pressed her knuckle against her mouth in a vain attempt to stop a small, choked sob from escaping.

He rose and moved beside her, took the mug, and enfolded her cold fingers in his. “It’s okay to cry, Grace.”

“No.” She shook her head, her voice tear-laced but adamant. “I won’t give that piece of dirt the satisfaction.”

“He’ll never know.”

“I will. I don’t need to cry.”

Yes, she did. If she’d been holding the horror of that night inside all this time, if it still had the power to reduce her to a quivering mess, tears could be cathartic.

But that was a conclusion she’d have to reach on her own.

“Did this guy . . . hurt you?” He couldn’t bring himself to be more specific. The thought of someone violating this caring, compassionate woman sent red-hot rage coursing through his veins.

Of course she read between the lines. Understood what he was really asking.

“Not in the way you mean. He did feel me up, though. After I started to squirm, he covered my mouth with his hand and pressed the knife h-harder. I have a small s-scar as a souvenir. I don’t know what would have happened if a group of people hadn’t left the bar then. I could hear them laughing and talking, and the guy froze. The instant it became obvious they were heading for the alley, he grabbed my purse and took off.”